LeBeau watched with a mixture of satisfaction and bewilderment as Newkirk sat down and tucked into the tea and toast. Newkirk was normally tense as a coiled spring while he was at the table, but now, with the barracks room all but empty, he was visibly relaxed. He smiled companionably and thanked LeBeau for the food.

"Cor, Louis, d-did you brew this tea? Because it's qu-quite good," he said, smiling as put down his mug to nosh on the toast.

"I don't care for tea…"

"I know, mate…"

"… but I do pay attention to how you make it. After all, it is the one thing you know how to prepare."

"Oh, really? How do I do it then?" Newkirk inquired with twinkle in his eye.

"You start with boiling hot water, and you pour it on the tea leaves…" LeBeau began.

"By taking the pot to the kettle. Never the kettle to the pot," Newkirk interjected. "Which you did. I can tell."

LeBeau smiled broadly. "Yes, I did. Then you let it steep for four minutes, put a little milk in the bottom of your cup…"

"Milk before tea. Never after…" Newkirk emphasized.

"No, never. And then you pour the tea in your mug," LeBeau concluded.

"And add sugar. Tastes like three lumps, which is…"

"Just how I like it," they said in unison, then broke up in laughter.

"Yes, well, where did you get the sugar?" Newkirk asked.

"For you? I have my ways," LeBeau said airily.

The men fell silent as Newkirk dipped a biscuit into the tea and then savored the soft texture as he nibbled at it. Finally, he spoke up.

"Thank you, Louis. I was hungry."

"Yes, I have eyes. You're not eating much."

Newkirk's eyes were down, and he let out a little huff. He knew he was eating poorly again, and he know LeBeau would notice – he always did. If LeBeau was hoping for some elaboration as to what was eating Newkirk this time, he wasn't going to get it.

"Pierre?" LeBeau finally asked.

Newkirk looked up.

"What if we just ate together for a while? Just the two of us?"

"You mean, no one else here in the barracks? Just us?" Newkirk sounded hopeful.

"Yes." LeBeau could feel his optimism rising. Maybe he could get Newkirk to eat better if there were fewer distractions.

"No one commenting on how I'm eating?" Newkirk inquired.

"I might say something, but I won't criticize you," LeBeau said. "I just want to make sure you're healthy."

"Well, you were sn-snapping at mmme that you'd already sssseparated my ffffood…"

"Yes, I'm sorry for that," LeBeau said. Newkirk's stutter was ramping up again; he'd touched a nerve and needed to back off before discussion shut down completely. "I know you don't like to let the foods touch," he said softly. "Were you just nervous with everyone watching?"

Newkirk shrugged the shrug that LeBeau recognized as agreement.

"But Carter said I was 'ffffussing,'" Newkirk said irritably.

LeBeau just looked at him, fighting back a smirk. He reached across the table and squeezed Newkirk's arm. "Pierre," he said. "Really?"

Newkirk looked up and saw LeBeau's expression. He gave in with a weak smile.

"All right, I was fffussing. I j-j-j-just don't need everyone's comments on my eating habits."

"It will just be us, mon pote. I'll work it out with Colonel Hogan."

Newkirk nodded. "That would be better. What, what will you cook?"

At that, LeBeau sighed. Supplies were not plentiful, even for Hogan's team. They received special drops of a few ingredients—dried eggs, flour, suet—that helped him to stretch their meager resources, and at times he could bargain with the guards for extras. He'd have to figure it out.

"What would you like?" LeBeau replied. "Just don't say fish and chips. We're too far from the sea."

"Could you do j-j-j-j-just the chips?" Newkirk asked.

"I think I could manage that," LeBeau said with a smile.